A Song for my American Boy
by TheSparksOfMagic
Summary: America goes to England's house for a visit, but in the garden he finds a black-haired punk rocking it out and singing. The punk is strangely familiar... contains punks, rock music and other such matters. UkUs and UsUk but it's not too... dirty. Sort of a songfic, based on the song American Boys by Halestorm


"Ig-gggy... Open the door... It's cold out here!" America hopped from foot to foot, arms crossed close to his chest to try and warm himself a little.

_It's definitely too cold in this fucking country for survival – how can anyone stand it? _thought America, sighing slightly as he did so. He peered through the frosted glass of the door, trying to catch a glimpse of his elusive English friend. He'd come all this way to visit the old man, so God damn it if he wasn't going to get in the house and see him before leaving _somehow_.

Obviously, England was either out, or in one of the rooms in his house where he couldn't hear the doorbell. America knew that the ingrained gentleman in England would never leave him outside in the rain, even if he was in the bath (_No, no, do not think about England answering the door in a towel, it is **definitely **not appropriate...) _or completely smashed off his face with some form of alcohol. America had been let in by a shit-faced England before on more than one occasion and he shivered at the thought. It was not always the most pleasant of experiences; a drunk off his ass England was usually as pissy as hell, or at least very emotional.

So America would prefer it if his ex-mentor had not been hitting the bottle. (_Although, the shower was f- No no no!)_

Starting to feel a little bit pissed off himself, America hammered a large fist on the door, but stopped quickly as it started to shake in its hinges. It was clearly not capable of standing up to the awesome power of the US of A!

But there was still no answer from England.

He slunk around the side of the building, hopping over the gate that blocked off the garden. If there was one place England could be, it was the garden.

But instead of finding a grumpy blonde Brit reading or sleeping in a wicker chair, he found himself faced with a black haired punk with his back facing America, head-banging wildly to his music with a bottle in hand; at least, America assumed it was a he. It could be hard to tell with British punks and their crazy hairstyles. The guy was singing wildly and loudly, and his ass was swingi- _God, he needed to get a grip! _

America suddenly realised that it probably wasn't a good thing that a strange punk was dancing in England's garden. He stormed up behind them, tapping their shoulder for attention, because the music was much too loud to hear anything else over. The person spun around angrily on one foot, tipping their headphones back around their neck.

Oh, it was definitely a guy. A very _familiar _ guy.

"England?" America stared incredulously at the green-eyed punk in front of him, especially at the dyed and gelled hair that had rendered the other nation almost unrecognisable. "What have you _done?_" England's eyes lit up, unfocused as they were from what was clearly alcohol.

"America!" England's words were slurred, but not as much as America had expected. Tinny music still blared out from the ears of the headphones, and when England realised what had caught the younger nation's attention, he pulled them back over his ears, hair hiding the plastic rims. As he did so, his face lit up in a devilish smile which was pointed directly at America, who suddenly realised why Pirate England was so feared. That crooked grin was definitely creepy, just a hint of teeth hiding behind thin pink lips. The owner of that grin walked past a dumbstruck America, back towards the house and beginning to sing quietly while he walked (_strutted, _thought America, _that is __**sooooo **__a strut). _

America found himself following England into the house, but when he entered the kitchen, he couldn't find him or hear him singing. He stopped just past the doorway, surveying the small room with curiosity and a feeling of distaste. The smell of burnt food still lingered from whatever England had tried to make for his breakfast, overlaid with the tang of booze.

Turning slowly around, he nearly jumped out of his skin upon seeing England leaning on the door-frame, singing in that strange, husky and very _un-England_ voice.

"Pretty boys at the university, watching them walk in their Levi jeans-" Blanching, America looked down at his own jeans, realising exactly what brand they were.

"Iggy, what are you-"

England hummed the next few lines, having also noticed America's jeans. (_Oh my god he's looking at my legs,__** England **__is __**checking out my legs...!**__)_

"They're my drug of choice," sang England, looking up at America through his eyelashes. America's mouth gaped open for a second before he flushed deeply, as England's eyes dropped down a little too far down his waist. Stunned, America didn't realise that England had grabbed his hand until the smaller man yanked on it hard, crushing their bodies together in all the wrong places.

America squeaked helplessly as that cool hand clutching his wrist pulled it down lower, snaking it around England's back, down to where his-

_Ohgodohgodoh**god**shitshitshitshitwhattheactualfucking**shitfuck**isthatEngland's**ASS**?_

Now very close together, America could feel England's hot breath of his ear as the other man sung in that voice that felt like both silk and sandpaper.

"Wanna slay 'em, wanna lay 'em, wanna play 'em-"

"E-England... seriousl-ah!" America yelped England pulled him in tighter, so close that he could feel England's heartbeat pounding in his chest. The proximity was making America sweat, the blistering, alcohol-induced heat of England's skin clammy against his own.

"They're my favourite toys-" England's lips brushed over the sensitive skin of his ear, causing America to whimper involuntarily.

"American..." A warm tongue ran its way down the shell of his ear.

"American boys." America nearly screamed aloud; England's teeth had skimmed their sharp edges down the stripe that pink tongue had just licked.

With a flourish, the dark-haired nation spun the closely embraced pair around, before letting go and hopping up onto one of the kitchen tops. (Blindly, America wondered how long it had taken him to perfect that move; no way was that a fluke.)

He reached for a bottle of the same unlabelled brand as before, tipping his head back to let the liquor run down his throat: an action England knew America was watching all too closely.

America's gaze was captured by that porcelain skin flexing past that distinct Adam's apple, perfect and unmarked, but if he could just press his lips hard enough-

No, no, **no,** he would _not_ get hard.

England lowered the bottle slowly, allowing the amber fluid to wet his lips before licking it off with a flick of his tongue. He began to sing again, voice easily an octave lower than usual.

"Metal head boys in the back of a Camaro,

Banging to Metallica on the radio/

From an all star stud to a punk like you,

We've got so many flavours that I just can't choose...!"

America watched entranced as England's head dropped suddenly, his dark hair falling and hiding those toxic eyes. The next lines were so quiet he had to lean in to hear them.

"Yeah, yeah...

They rock the world...

Yeah, yeah..."

England looked up again, green eyes meeting crystal blue.

"Of this British born boy."

There was a silence but for the slow breathing of the two men, and in that silence America recognised the song. England's eyes were losing the lusty, forceful look from earlier, as fast as his cheeks were flushing a deep red. America wanted that England back.

Clearing his throat, he sang, his own voice rusty compared to the smooth velvet of England's.

"Come on, make a move,

Do what you do."

He threw his arms open, cocking his head slightly at the same time. England stumbled off the side, and pressed close into America's chest. America wrapped his arms around the slim body, pushing his nose and mouth into his hair, the black tufts still soft and tousled. Tilting his head up, England melted his mouth against America's, mouthing soft words against the softer skin.

America could feel their shapes on his lips, and smiled.

"My American boy,

God I love him, God I need him, God I want him,

He's my drug of choice/

American boy,

Wanna slay him, wanna lay him, wanna play him,

He's my favourite toy.

America...

My American boy."

* * *

**AN - This was written for a prompt I had on Tumblr, so enjoy. I have a similar one, where America's little daydream actually happens... ;) My IRL friend wanted it, so be on the lookout! **

**The song is called 'American Boys', by Halestorm. I changed a few of the lyrics, but they are ones England changed, because he's trying to tell America something very important... **


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